


Devils in the Detail

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this while watching Season 2 in around 2007, so Sam and Dean are still mere hunters, who haven't died fifty times, it's pre-Castiel and all that delicious Subtext.<br/>Sam is still the baby brother, Dean is still a wisecracking jerk.<br/>It's brotherly angst and sacrifice.  It does involve rape, so don't read it if it squicks you.</p><p>They are investigating the disappearance of young men in a mill town and the surrounding county and Dean can't find Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Taking

Dean moved quietly across the dirty floor. His shoes sliding slightly in the dust. Tiny particles swirled around in the air drifting up onto his clothes, into his hair, settling in the fine hairs filtering the breath entering his lungs through his nose. The light from the high window caught each tiny mote, as it danced on subtle currents in the room. 

“Sammy?” His face screwed slightly, eyes sliding across the huge space. “Sam, you in here?”

There was no response. He edged forward carefully and drew his gun from behind his back. Heavy boots moving forward soft and delicate, each foot placed with precision. 

There was no sign that Sam had ever been here, just a large empty warehouse. Dean’s brow furrowed as he thought over the past eight hours, something had been nagging at the back of his mind, something that didn’t quite scan, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He searched the space for clues, but there was nothing doing, not even the flutter of obligatory pigeons across the meccano tangle of roof beams. 

The place was empty and had been for a long time. He slipped the gun back into his waistband and turned to head back to Baby, only to realise that the doorway was blocked. The silhouette of the sheriff unmistakeable because of his hat.

“Shit,” Dean cursed to himself. He stepped further back into the shadows as quietly as he could, squatting down behind a rusting forklift.

“Come out, come out wherever you are.” The phrase was so playful and incongruous that Dean blinked hard. What the fuck!

“I know you’re in here, boy. And I know this door is the only way out. The river runs behind this place and it’s a forty foot drop from the loading gantry.” 

Dean thought quickly, killing a cop was not an option. The guy was definitely human, no matter what kind of appalling human. He stashed the gun in the forklift and stood up slowly thinking to bluff his way out. They had nothing on him and he was too new in town to be in the frame for Malcolm Arnold’s disappearance. A bit of questioning and maybe some rough stuff and then they would run him out of town.

He moved crabwise away from the forklift and rounded the corner into the light. Sheriff Handel grunted in satisfaction, his slightly pudgy face splitting into a malicious grin. “Walk forward, keep your hands up where I can see ‘em. I don’t want to spend the rest of my day doing paperwork, because I mistook your cell for a firearm.”

This guy was too much, Dean sniggered, walking forward arms half-heartedly in the air.

“I thought I told your brother to drop this. We don’t need you interfering in this town.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, momentarily caught off guard. How did the cop know they were brothers? They’d appeared separately and when had he talked to Sam?

The sheriff sneered at him. “Turn around with your hands on the back of your head, ‘Dean’ and maybe I’ll take you to find Sammy and maybe not.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone else. My name’s Robert Carmichael.”

“Yeah,” said the sheriff sarcastically, “and I’m Britney.”

The first cuff was wrapped around Dean’s wrist, he felt the sheriff hesitate, just for a split second and Dean seized his chance, extending his leg and sweeping low he knocked the man off his feet and cuff trailing from his wrist he ran for the Impala, only to fall to the floor himself as Sheriff Handel grabbed his ankle and legged him over. Dean kicked hard and heard with some satisfaction a dull crunch as his heel made contact. He scrambled to his feet, only to find his way blocked by a deputy, who was holding his gun with shaking hands.

Dean froze on the spot and raised his hands, with more purpose this time. He could hear the sheriff behind him staggering to his feet coughing and wheezing. Both wrists were yanked back harshly and the cuffs applied with extra vigour, Dean winced as the metal dug into his flesh.

“Willis, put the damn gun down now. You’re as likely to shoot me as you are the suspect. It’s under control.” Handel was panting, wiping blood and snot from his nose onto his sleeve. 

Willis swallowed nervously and fumblingly put it into the holster. “Shall I radio in, boss? ” 

“No, we’ll just drive back nice and slow. If you catch my meaning.”

Dean, stood quietly, shifting his arms in a bid to ease the pain in his hands. Willis disappeared from the doorway. “Little tight for you are they, Dean? Don’t worry that’ll be the least of your worries shortly, you little shit.” The punch to his lower back wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it still sank him to his knees. The pain radiating through his kidneys took his breath away. “On your face,” Handel pushed him down. “So what were you stashing behind that fork lift?” he asked, still wheezing slightly from the fight.

He grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair and yanked his head back. “Cat got your tongue?” Dean shot him a look of pure malice, enjoying the sight of the rapidly swelling nose but didn’t answer the question.

“You know a man of your age and ‘stature’ should be careful taking exercise.” The sheriff slammed his head into the dirt floor and stomped away.

Dean rolled onto his side and watched the Sheriff walking back into the corner where he had been hiding. 

He reappeared seconds later carrying the gun. “So resourceful and accommodating,” he said raising the weapon. “Loaded, too.” His face changed and he started shouting, “Willis, Willis, help me, he’s trying to escape!”

The deputy appeared in the doorway at the double, then stopped, staring open mouthed at Dean, who was shouting a warning to him. The ‘escapee’ was sitting on the floor, still cuffed and incapacitated. The look of confusion melded into one of comprehension as he took a step back from the double impact, arm clutched to his chest, shirt flushing with crimson, before he fell in an elegant arc to the ground.

The sound echoed and amplified around the warehouse concussing Dean’s ears. He tried to scrabble to his feet, figuring he was next, until Handel dragged him to his feet by one arm and shoved him towards the door. Wiping the gun he threw it back through the doorway and pushed Dean towards the squad car, opening the trunk. He inclined his head in invitation.

“No way man, I am not riding in the trunk, I’d rather you shot me now.”

“Get in there, or I shoot you in the kneecaps and put you in there anyway.”

Shaking inwardly, Dean pulled a facial shrug, “Well seeing as you asked so nicely...”


	2. The Shaking

Sam Winchester smiled kindly at Victoria Handel, who was making him tea, playing the polite hostess and trying hard to hide the shaking in her hands. They were sat either side of a beautiful deco coffee table on chintzy sofas. She looked like a porcelain doll, with her fine features and high necked blouse.

“It’s OK,” he said gently, “I know you had nothing to do with Malcolm’s disappearance… Hey, hey, I know this is difficult for you, being the last one to see him alive must…” The sympathy in his voice, and the comforting hand touching her own finally finishing off what little self control remained, Victoria dropped the pot mid pour and the soft flow of tears turned into racking sobs.

“You have to leave,” she spluttered. “You’re in danger, and you’ve been so kind to me…” Sam leant further forward, and she grabbed at his hands, her long lace sleeves pulling back to reveal heavily bruised wrists, “Real danger... and so is Dean.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The combined smell of oil, musty carpet and old vomit was hardly a fine bouquet, but Dean was reassured that at least he was alive to smell as the car drew to a halt and the engine died.

He heard the car door clunk open and felt the suspension adjust as Handel got out, he strained to hear the footsteps moving away. Rolling on to his back, pausing only to check for any sound of return, Dean braced his legs against the trunk and pushed trying to pop the lock. It was futile. He flexed his fingers against the pins and needles and squirmed back on to his side. “Well this is a fine fucking mess to be in,” he said aloud, reassured by the sound of his own voice. “Never a paper clip in a trunk when you really need one.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam flicked open his phone and dialled Dean’s number, noticing the 6 or 7 missed calls. “Shit.” The phone rang endlessly, for a fleeting moment Sam wondered if he had rung the wrong number in error. Dean’s voice asked him to leave a message and he left his warning, beginning to fear that he may be too late.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean grunted as he was dragged from the trunk into the garage. He wasn’t quick enough to swing his legs under him and fell in an awkward heap on the concrete floor. He lay there for a second feeling the phone in his pocket vibrate. Making sure as he stood up, that he made enough noise to cover the humming, he raised himself up to his full height and stretched his shoulders as much as he could, before Handel shoved him forward again. “Hey man, ease up, I’m movin.”

Dean struggled as he was pushed down a gloomy looking concrete corridor. Large industrial light-fittings were so grimed up behind the metal protectors and thick glass that the light was barely breaking through. Arms still cuffed behind him, he staggered and caught his foot on a ridge in the flooring. He twisted himself mid-air as he felt himself fall so that he landed on his shoulder, rather than his face. Winded by the impact, he lay still for a moment, so the sheriff kicked him. “Get up shit bag. On your feet.” 

He was hauled upright and manhandled towards a door, at the end of corridor.

Knowing it was pointless asking the cop anything, knowing it would lead to nothing but physical abuse, Dean could not resist the urge to try and needle the guy. “Seemed fairer to me, before you cuffed me, weren’t so much the one on top there. Good job your buddy turned up really.”

“Shut the fuck up, unless you want some more of the same.”

“Bet that works on your wife.” His next sentence was lost as he was slammed against the wall. 

“My wife ain’t no concern of yours, pretty boy,” the man rasped, his voice harsh and his eyes bulging. Face inches from Dean's. Handel pinned him by his neck to the wall, surprisingly strong fingers pinching painfully just behind his ears, crushing his face into the dirty concrete. Dean breathed heavily, spitting the blood from his mouth as he was yanked away.

He was shoved through the door into a large room, without windows. It felt and smelt of damp. In the corner was a camera on a tripod linked to a computer in the corner. It was focussed on a pool of light so bright that Dean felt his eyes burning with hot needles as he squinted into it. The floor was covered by a large soft looking eiderdown.

Dean grimaced and shouted at the sharp stabbing pain in his leg like a hornet sting. His hands were released. He turned rubbing his leg and wrists alternately as the door slammed shut. He looked distractedly at them, purple and spotted with blood where the overly tightened cuffs had sunk into his flesh. He started towards the door. A voice boomed into the room, “Sit down over there.”

His vision was beginning to blur and his mouth felt dry. He moved towards the quilt, skin prickling. “What the fuck did you jab me w…” The room filled with colour and his vision fractioned into a kaleidoscopic swirl, he felt the sound around him like ripples in a swimming pool, collapsing sideways onto the eiderdown, he did not feel himself land.


	3. The Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down to business.

His brain cleared suddenly and his eyes snapped open. He tried to lift his hands to rub his face and dropped his head to his shoulder. Fuck, he was chained to the wall. He snatched at the restraints, they were strong and the chain was shiny and new. The leather against his skin itched over the weals on his wrists. The chains holding his wrists snapped tight, pulling him to his feet and dragging his hands back over his head to the wall behind. His head clattered into the bricks.

The sheriff, who appeared from the darkness behind the lights, reached up and smoothed tape over Dean’s mouth. “That should keep your wise ass remarks to a minimum,” he smirked at the hatred in Dean’s face.

He took a step back, admiring his own handiwork. Dean watched him warily and began taking in his surroundings, as far as he could see them in the gloom beyond the lights. 

“Don’t bother,” Handel sneered, “there’s no way out of this. You are staying here until we decide it’s time. And don’t hold out hope of rescue. ‘Sammy’ is walking into the self same trap that you did. Can’t wait for the tearful family reunion, myself…” He laughed, even through the gag, there was no mistaking the expletive. “Fight all you want, you ain’t going anywhere.”

Dean stared after him as he shut the door. The spots blinked out, and the only light left in the room was the ghostly glow of the extinguished computer screen in the corner. The camera stood on it’s tripod, it’s unseeing eye, staring at him, like a sentinel.

The guy was full of shit. It was possible that Sam had followed the trail and would get himself caught, but Dean was certain that his brother was smarter than that and Dean’s failure to return would give him a huge hint that all was not as it seemed. Somehow he drifted into sleep, standing hipshod like a pony.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Louis stared at the screen on his large oak desk. His pointed chin resting on immaculately manicured long fingers clasped in a bridge. A file lay marginally discarded, papers scattered across the surface. A resume of sorts, pictures and scraps of reports and newsprint. The boy was truly beautiful, just as Handel had promised, and as a bonus, officially he was already dead. A murderer no less, well Louis knew how that could happen. A shape-shifter most likely. His gaze returned to the image, intrigued, he hit play.

Dressed in khaki jacket and classic denims, he lay unconscious on the dirty floor. His face was bruised and the dark contusion on his cheek matched the blush of his lips. His eyes were closed, the strong face smooth and handsome. Louis glanced at the description, hazel green eyes. He imagined them open and pleading, like bright jewels. He could not wait to see those eyes gazing at him from that angular face. He moistened his lips. Louis stared at the line of the jaw, the neat ear and the way the dark hair kissed the temple and forehead, it was endearingly ruffled. Bedhead. Louis caressed his own upper lip with the tip of his tongue. The price for this one was high, and now he began to understand it was probably going to be worth it. He reached out for the crystal decanter and poured himself a generous measure of bourbon.

Handel strapped a leather cuff around each unresisting wrist, carefully he positioned a small metal stud gun into place and fixed three neatly spaced studs along the joins. He clipped each restraint to the lengths of chain which were looped through hooks fixed to the walls and floor. The young man began to stir and moaned as reality began to return. The noise was delicious and Louis felt his clothes tighten and his pulse quicken.

Handel drew back as the eyes snapped open. A flash of awareness glimmered across the handsome face as Handel pulled on the chains and his arms jerked back over his head. To Louis it was most comical. The boy looked like a puppet as he scrabbled to his feet and staggered backwards. Then, Louis saw the teeth catch the lip with pain, as the head jolted against the wall and Louis felt a surge of hot pleasure against his own groin. He was captivated. The angry glower at Handel was wonderful, such spirit and fight. The defiance in each and every taut muscle. The head was forced back again as Handel roughly smoothed tape over those beautiful lips. The growl of protest convulsed Louis with desire.

As Handel taunted him about his brother, Dean screamed an obscenity through the gag and pulled at the restraints. Louis came in his pants.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squick warning

Eventually Dean was woken by the sound of the door scraping open, someone approached through the dark, the gag was removed and a straw forced between his lips. “It’s only water, drink,” a voice hissed in the dark. The accent crisp and English.

“What no beer? What kind of hospitality is that?” The backhander that was his reward for this remark, stung. He stretched his mouth and this time took the offered straw and drank thirstily.

Lights came on suddenly. The computer and camera were still in place, and lighting rigs stood to one side. The hooded figure who had offered the drink, was now walking back towards the table. Dean contemplated his options, he looked up at his wrists, they were firmly secured to lengths of chain, which were looped through a hoop on the wall and secured at some distance, stretching him like a crucifix. His legs were free, but he could see no way to loosen his wrists without assistance. That left Miss Hoody…scratch that Mr Hoody Dean realised as the hood was pushed back to reveal a shaved head and softly stubbled chin.

Dean looked up from under his brow, wary and watchful. Louis walked across the room. “So what’s with the Jawa outfit,” Dean smirked. “Just cos you’re a bit on the… diminutive side, don’t mean you have to follow the dress code, or were you going for one of Snow White’s ardent admirers?”

Without responding the Englishman moved closer. He gazed up into the Dean’s eyes, catching his gaze. Dark brown meeting green without either flinching or blinking. “You are mine,” he rasped, “I own you. You will do as I ask or face the consequences.”

Dean broke the staring contest and pulled his face into fake consideration. “Well there now, we have a problem, see I’m not real good on consequences. Act first, think later. I know it was tempting to go for the attractive brother, but if you wanted a thinker….” He stopped as a balled fist landed in his ribs, pushing the air from his lungs. He struggled to regain his breath, as Louis moved towards the chains letting one arm drop down. Refastening through a lower hook near the floor and pulling Dean’s arm down to his side.

“Now that wasn’t very friendly,” Dean gasped.

“Sit.” Louis commanded as he repeated the exercise with the other chain. The only choice was to comply under the steady pressure on his wrists. “I’m going to remove your shoes, any attempt to resist and I will use this.” Louis revealed a small stun gun in his hand. 

Dean grudgingly allowed the small man to remove his shoes. “What now,” he mused, “tickle torture?”

“Handel is right. Your smart mouth is tiresome. But I have better uses for it, that will prove far more entertaining. At least for me and my…public.” Louis nodded towards the camera. He straddled Dean’s thighs, surprisingly heavy for such a small man, his robe scattering out around him. Louis leant forward and kissed him. Dean pulled his face away, repulsed. Two metal prongs dug into the soft flesh under his right ear. “Do not push me to carry out my threat,” Louis sneered. “there are no faith healers here.” Dean raised his eyebrows, but showed no other reaction. Louis leant forward again and pressed onto bruised lips. His tongue licking along the tightly pressed crease of Dean’s mouth. Teeth nipping at the joint of lip and skin. Dean flinched, Louis seized his chin and pushed his head back against the wall, forcing him into another kiss, hard and unrelenting, lips parted.

Louis broke the kiss and stepped back away to the side. He laughed at the look of disgust on Dean’s face. “Don’t worry if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you cum.” Dean snorted. Momentarily phased. “Don’t think I won’t get a response from you, Dean. I’m quite talented you know. This doesn’t have to be an unpleasant process for you. You are not too much of a man to be taken by me.”

“Undo these cuffs and see how confident you are about that,” Dean spluttered.

Louis laughed and bent forward again, wrapping the belt from his robe around Dean’s ankles. “Wouldn’t want you to accidentally kick me know would we.”

“Not unless I can reach your ass,” Dean snarled, pulling hard at his wrists.

Louis moved in again, yanking Dean’s jacket open and tearing his t-shirt apart to expose the well toned chest and stomach. “That was one of my favourites, you son of a bitch,” Dean snapped, determined to show no fear, although his stomach was a knot of anxiety. This was all heading in a very unwelcome direction.

Surprisingly soft hands stroked over the muscles and delicately scraped a thumb nail along the crease from hip bone to hip bone. Fingers gently squeezed and pinched his nipple, before the warm mouth closed over it, and those neat white teeth nipped sharply. So much for the English and their bad teeth. Louis clearly enjoyed the gasp of pain, pain that trailed like a jolt of electricity. He drew back on his haunches. Dean was shaking with fury. 

“You will enjoy this Dean, I’m not going to fling you face down and bugger you stupid. Unless you’d prefer that Dean, broken and beaten, so you can deny just how much you wanted it. I promise you will be begging for more.”

“The hell I will,” Dean sneered, he tried to wrench free, hissing in fury at his powerlessness. “You bastard.” He pulled his knees up, trying to push Louis away with his feet, trying to throw him off balance, even if he couldn’t use his fists, but it was pointless. Louis was watching with decided amusement, as he drew back and pressed the stun gun into Dean’s ribs. Dean convulsed and then yelled in pain.

“I warned you Dean, not to press me. Next time I use full power.” Louis loosened the chains and dragged Dean away from the wall by his feet, pulling him flat onto his back, arms stretched once more over his head. Before he could move, Louis was right there on top of him. Dean struggled harder, his socks offering no grip on the smooth floor. Disorientated from the surge of current and the drugs still in his system, all he could do was repeat, “You bastard, you fucking bastard.”

Louis kissed him again, gently, brushing lips so delicately. He drew a knife from inside his cloak and cut Dean’s jacket away. Ripping the remains of his T-shirt, until he reached the collar which needed the knife. He removed his cloak, revealing soft skin covered in intricate designs, that seemed to move as his muscles shifted under them. He threw the cloak to one side, intent on his desire. Leaning forward flesh on flesh, he stroked soft fingers down from Dean’s wrists, along the soft skin of his inner arms. Easing back he trailed his fingertips down over the muscled torso. Dean turned his head to the side, not wishing to give any further encouragement.

Louis felt a strange surge or affection for him, tough and resourceful, but with an irresistible vulnerability. Little surprise with his past and upbringing, mother killed, father controlling and distant. Spells in juvie, always moving. Handel always passed on his thorough research. Placing a gentle hand on Dean’s face he turned it back and used his thumb to wipe away an half-formed tear. Tenderly he stroked the cheek, which twitched away from his hand. Dean stared at him in defiance, and pulled his head away. Louis backhanded him so hard he thought his cheek bone had imploded. “You will obey me, Dean. Now this time when I kiss you, you will kiss back or I will turn you over and take you unprepared.”

“You hit like a girl.” It was a juvenile remark, but it was all Dean could think of. He was rewarded with an upper cut that sent a cascade of fireworks across his eyes. He moaned involuntarily and tried to refocus. He licked the inside of his lower lip, the familiar coppery taste of his own blood on his tongue. Louis kissed him again and forced his tongue into the edge of his mouth. Dean closed his teeth, intending to bite until he felt cold metal pressed against his cheek. He lay inert, allowing his mouth to be plundered, hoping desperately that this as all that would be forced past his lips.

He squirmed as Louis moved his hot moist mouth to his neck, nipping and biting at his jawbone, neck and earlobe. “Get the fuck off me,” he screamed in desperation. Soft hands were working down towards his waistband, fumbling at the belt of his jeans. As he struggled he felt the cold of the knife under his upper arm, wriggling and protesting he managed to slide over it, reassured by the feel of a weapon under his shoulder blade, even if he could not at the moment use it.

Louis was clearly enjoying the scream and struggle. He bit hard into Dean’s neck, leaving a red raised ring of teeth marks, with a deepening bruise in the centre. His mark. With one hand entwined in Dean’s hair he inched his other hand inside the waistband of his jeans and ran his finger down opening the zipper as he went. His mouth leaving a delicate trail of spittle from the mark on Dean’s neck to first one nipple and then the other.

He shifted suddenly, moving swiftly to rip the jeans down over Dean’s hips to his knees. Here he left them bunched, before reaching for the elastic of Dean’s black shorts. Dean shuddered in the sudden cold, as Louis’ body heat removed from his chest and his thighs were exposed to the air. Louis’ eyes were wide with passion, the painting on his body were writhing and Dean realised with horror that this was no optical illusion. The symbols were merging and shifting in shape. The figures of young men were clearly visible, limbs and bodies entwined in the mass of symbols.

Dean screamed obscenities and struggled hard, until Louis smothered his mouth with his own and began kissing him hard. Louis’ was clearly becoming excited by the reaction he was soliciting. He ground down against Dean, pushing his hard penis into the gap at the top of Dean’s thighs. Ignoring the pain in the back of his head, as the roots of his hair were torn from his scalp, Dean attempted a head butt. Louis leant back and slapped him hard across the face, laughing. His eyes were completely black, his features contorted, his tongue forking as Dean watched.

Dean screwed his eyes shut, but had to open them again as he felt the thing that was Louis moving. Pushing his jeans and his shorts down towards his bound ankles, kneeling between his legs, forcing them apart. Those soft hands, one cupping his balls, the other stroking and teasing him. The groan in Louis’ throat no longer held the soft tones of a human voice, but something harsher and more guttural.

Dean grunted in frustration and pulled at the wrist restraints above his head. He wanted to do something, anything to counteract the feeling of powerlessness. In spite of every feeling of disgust and horror, he could feel his treacherous body responding to the stimulation. He needed to fight, it was his natural instinct, he could not, would not, just surrender. He wrenched at his trapped wrists, tried to pull his body to the side, tried to get his legs out from underneath Louis, who chuckled manically and bent forward to kiss him again.

For the first time in his life, Dean wished he was impotent as Louis closed firm, soft fingers around him, sliding his foreskin down and rolled a thumb over the sensitive head. Dean gasped in surprise, as the pleasure of the contact pulsed through his body. “You freaking bastard.” A surge of adrenalin coursed through him and suddenly everything was brighter than bright, every nerve ending seemed to be sending a message to his brain. “You son of a bitch, what did you give me?” The realisation dawning on him even as the fear froze his blood.

Louis turned his back to Dean, still sitting across his knees, removing the belt and pulling Dean’s clothes over his feet, throwing them away to the corner of the room. Dean watched as a face formed in the pattern on Louis’ back, the mouth opening to a scream, before it closed and the eyes fluttered, disappearing into a swirl of cloudy ink just under the skin. Dean realised with horror that he recognised the face of the boy from the missing persons file.

Louis was reaching for the robe as Dean struggled to breathe. Louis turned back and watching Dean’s face intently he stroked and squeezed, and gently plucked at the goosy crumpled flesh before with an agonising combination of softness and pressure smoothing his hand down and along the cleavage between Dean’s butt cheeks, oh so very softly. 

“No,” Dean cried in anguish, “leave me alone you sick fuck.” The cold wet fingers of Louis’ other hand touched his chest. The painted skin swirled hypnotically, the figures writhing and cavorting across the smooth muscled canvas.

His hips bucked involuntarily as Louis forced his legs further apart, still using his weight to pin his ankles to the floor. Cold fingers rolled between his thighs again, seeking entry. Louis smiled and pushed further. Dean clenched his fists and pulled his body up, against his tensed arms in a desperate effort to move as far away as possible from those probing digits.

He panted and struggled to breathe as Louis forced one finger past the ring of contracting muscle, the stretch and discomfort, combined with the pleasure of Louis finger and thumb gently kneeding, stretching, pulling and stroking his erection. The curve of Louis’ thumb smoothing the underside, soft as satin. Suddenly Dean felt himself rocking into the hand, and his jaw clenched in anger. He raised his knees in a sudden determined effort and Louis was unseated, sent rolling away as Dean’s knee connected with his chin.

Dean dragged himself swiftly backwards, pulling his arms in front of his body, grabbing the knife and brandishing it in front of him, as he forced his protesting leg muscles into a squatting position. He shivered in a sudden cold sweat and shook his head to clear his brain.

“Ha,” he said defiantly, “that’ll teach you to possess a short arse.”

He leant his elbows on his knees, watching warily as Louis rolled over. The black eyes drew back into regular pupils and the tattoos appeared to have stilled. The face became more human. Louis attempted to push himself up onto all fours and appeared weakened.

Dean unhooked the chain attaching his right arm to the wall watching carefully, knife at the ready. He flicked his hand, reeling the length of chain in around his own wrist and moved to unclip the other chain. Too late he saw the glint of movement to his left side, the blow to his temple spun him around and the knife dropped to the floor. He fell forward onto his knees, left arm awkwardly twisted behind him. The concrete was cool against his cheek, as his vision blurred and he fell unconscious again.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vicky Handel sat very still in the passenger seat of her own jeep, scared and white faced. Sam drove as she directed, drawing up short of the dirt track down to the riverside warehouse. The Impala stood outside, empty. Reversing up Sam drove back to the previous turn and pulled the jeep up against the river bank. He could see the warehouse roof through the scrub. “Stay here,” he said glancing at her with a quick winsome smile. “It’ll be OK, Dean will be OK.” He wasn’t entirely sure who he was reassuring.

He grabbed the kit bag from the back seat, she grabbed his arm. “Be careful. He will kill you both. He has no conscience.” Sam smiled at her, and when he left she was wrapping the rosary tighter around her hand.

Sam pushed against the window, feeling the frame crack under the pressure, and being careful not to break what was left of the grass, he pulled the whole unit clear. Cautiously, he climbed through in one athletic movement, feet first into the room.

The floor was gritty beneath his feet, remnants of old machines scattered about, looking snowy with a deep layer of greasy dust. He paused, head cocked, listening intently, but all he could hear was the muted drum of the river against the wall. Dust sparkled in the air and the setting sun shone brightly through the door forming an elongated shaft of brilliant yellow across the dirt floor, which almost reached the back wall. As he rounded the corner squinting into the light, Sam saw the shape of a man lay in a patch of darkened dirt just inside the door. Swinging the bag from his shoulder, Sam covered the distance quickly, heart racing. As he dropped to his knees and his eyes adjusted to the darkness he realised the man was uniformed.

Although his breathing was shallow, the guy was still alive. Sam acted quickly grabbing a pad of cotton from the first aid kit. He lifted the arm away from the chest seeking the wound, until he realised the blood was from the cop’s arm. He pushed the pad against the wound and reached into his pocket for his phone. A shadow fell across the doorway and he turned sharply in time to see Vicky drop forward, crying. “Ben, oh no, please not Ben.” Behind her stood the sheriff smirking.

“Hello, Sammy, fancy meeting you in here. On your knees, hands behind your head.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean was once again chained, his wrists were clamped to two columns, his arms stretched out sidewards. His head hung down, shoulders slumped, his knees bent under him.

Louis picked up a bucket full of water and doused him. Dean spluttered and gasped for air, raising his head. His eyes wobbled and then focussed on Louis. “Don’t you ever get bored,” he croaked. “Go play with someone else, you son of a bitch. You’re not my type.”

Louis grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair and pulled his head back, laughing at the hatred in the deep eyes. God, he thought, he is gorgeous, even like this he is gorgeous. He watched as Dean swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving under the smooth skin. He felt the familiar tingle of arousal, the daemon within flooding his system.

He let go of the handful of hair and walked behind Dean, running his hands down the muscled back and then over the smooth buttocks. “Leave me alone.” Dean shouted.

“This time,” Louis crooned, “you won’t resist me. This time there will be no attempt to escape. This time I take you.” He slid back round in front of Dean, dropping to his knees in front of him. He began stroking and caressing with that same fierce insistent mixture of strength and softness, smiling with satisfaction as despite Dean’s best efforts resisting the stimulation he started to respond.

Dean closed his eyes, only to open them again with shock as Louis once again began forcing his fingers into his body. This time with no preamble, as the pain caused him to grimace and pull away, He gasped at the moist warmth of Louis’ mouth and the sensation as the swirled and flicked, in any other encounter it would be mind-blowing for the right reasons. Dean heard the moan escape his own throat before he was even aware of it, overcome with a combination of pleasure and pain, it was unbelievably good. He bit his lip hard to hold back another groan. He pushed forward deeper into the hot soft recess of Louis’ mouth, noting with some satisfaction that it caused his potential rapist to gag.

Almost in spite himself, he yanked his body backward, impaling himself further onto Louis’ fingers, but in doing so pulling himself free of the hypnotic warmth and vacuum. He swung on his arms bringing both legs up and kicking hard knocked Louis back across the room.

Louis’ face as he regained his balance and returned to his feet was a study in exasperation. “I… am…trying to do this the pleasant way, but my patience is wearing thin,” he growled. 

“Don’t stress yourself on my account. We both know I don’t want this. You sick rapist fuck.” Dean raised his eyebrows in challenge, standing squarely on his feet, naked, body marked with bruises and grazes, glistening with sweat, breathing heavily but very definitely in charge of himself. Louis snorted, feeling grudging admiration for the kid’s guts, but knowing he still had the upper hand. Last time one had fought this hard he had just given up and shot him, cutting his losses and waiting for Handel to supply another, but Dean was under his skin. This was no longer just a matter of satisfying the daemon, this was a challenge. He wanted this one broken and begging, when the time came to consume him. In fact he wanted to use him more than once before he fed.

He edged forward once, warily. Dean shifted, poised for the fight. Staying out of reach Louis checked the chains were still firmly attached to the walls. Dean with only his legs to fight was one thing. Dean with one arm free was quite another.

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“On your feet bitch,” Handel ordered his wife. “We’re going for a little drive. Sammy here is missing his brother and Louis needs a little leverage.” Vicky hesitated. “Now, bitch, or you can lie here and rot with ‘Ben, darling’. Think I dint know ‘bout you two. What sort of schmuck d’you take me for? I’ve been waiting for the right set up, and who better than the brother of a murderer. Now you’d better pay attention, bitch, cos there’s going to be no-one left to play poor little rich girl with anymore, you better be proving to me that you are a better wife than I see at the minute.”


	5. The Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the really nasty chapter, with a rape scene and the consequence of that rape scene, so please don't read it if you're going to be offended by it, etc.
> 
> Sam finds Dean, but he's powerless to intervene and worst still he's being used as leverage...

Sam sat very still in the chair. Handel stood over him impassive and immovable. Louis smiled at his tightly controlled expression. Dean stood, dirty, bruised and glowering.

“Now Dean,” Louis said sweetly. “You wouldn’t behave for your own benefit, perhaps you will for his.”

“Go to hell,” Dean growled.

Handel locked his arm around Sam’s neck, pulling his head back at an awkward angle. Sam struggled but the hold was firm. Using his free arm, Handel drew the knife across, Sam’s exposed cheek, a tiny line of red beads sprang up across the smooth skin, as he exclaimed in pain.

Dean fought against the cuffs frantically. “I am gonna kill you, you bastards.” Louis nodded to Handel, who moved the knife under Sam’s chin. “All right, all right, whatever you want, just no more.”

Handel released his grip. “No, Dean,” Sam said, shaking his head, not sure what his brother was agreeing to, “Whatever they want you to do, don’t do it!”

Handel laughed, snorting down his nose. “Aw, how sweet, two brothers prepared to sacrifice themselves for each other.” He whacked Sam across the side of the head for good measure.

Dean stood quietly now, head bowed, too agonised to look his brother in the eye. “Not in front of him,” he murmured, “please just not in front of Sam.”

“Dean, no please, no don’t.” Sam begged, too much guilt already, he couldn’t bear anymore. How many more people had to suffer to spare him? Sam threw himself forward from the chair, and started towards Louis, but Handel grabbed his cuffed hands and forced them upwards, dragging him back towards the chair. He hooked his hands behind the chair and fastened the links to the strut at the back.

He held the knife against Sam’s throat, once more, grazing the skin as he swallowed. Handel face was set in its habitual smirk, this was fun. Normally he preferred not to watch, he enjoyed the violence and the pain, but Handel was a ladies man through and through. Watching two men coupling did not ring his bell. He was earning good money snatching misfits for Louis, he had his bitch to act as a honey trap and to then satisfy him, when his sadistic urges were aroused. And then, then, along came these two little cocksuckers, almost ruining everything, raising suspicion amongst the rest of the crew. So, for once, he was staying, and when that tough little fucker, Dean, was gone, he would have the pleasure of offing the brother. He could claim he was trying to escape after killing Willis. But not until he milked very ounce of despair and pain. He revelled in his own cleverness and licked his top lip at the thought of what he would do to Vicky later.

“Not in front of Sam,” Dean said again. Head hanging down.

“He’s my insurance,” Louis said coldly. “If you won’t comply, he gets the beating,” he paused. “Or worse.”

Dean raised his head, and for a few seconds the brothers’ gazes locked on one another. Sam’s pleading, Dean’s weary. “OK,” he hissed, clearing his throat, refusing to look at Sam any longer.

“No, Dean, don’t please, don’t do this.” Handel silenced him with a chopping blow to the throat that left him gasping for breath.

“Enough Handel,” Louis snapped. “He is only hurt if Dean misbehaves. That is my side of the bargain.” Sam continued to cough and choke. “Gag him if he remains a nuisance, but no more damage.” Louis raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, Dean nodded, his jaw and lips set in anger. Louis unhooked first one arm and then the other, before clipping them together with a few inches of chain behind Dean’s back.

“On the floor, lean back against the wall,” Dean sat back, swallowing hard. Louis knelt between his legs forcing them apart, stroking his fingers through the soft fluffy hairs along the cleavage and curve of Dean’s cheeks. His gentle hands began stroking and caressing, the back of an index finger sliding smoothly between Dean’s legs, dragging through the loose rough flesh and along the crease of his thigh. The other hand pushed on his chest forcing him to lean back. Sam overwhelmed with horror as he realised exactly Dean had just agreed to, was fighting again, trying to break free, spitting curses and uttering hatred, until Handel stunned him with a blow to the back of his head and raised the knife to his throat.

Louis bent forward, pausing to kiss Dean hard on the lips, soft moist lips and tongue seeking union and meeting with stony resistance, until the threat to let Handel even a little bit loose on Sam forced Dean to reciprocate. Louis sighed into the kiss, before nibbling along the strong jaw and down the neck, nipping gently with his teeth, leaving small marks in the whiskered skin. He brushed his lips over the mark he had made earlier, enjoying the shudder that ran through Dean. He lowered his head, nipping at the soft hair tracking from Dean’s navel, stroking his fingers from armpit to hips, just scratching enough for Dean to shiver, his stomach muscles twitching away under the contact as the hands moved inward. Dean clenched his fists, fighting the urge to resist.

Louis began smoothing gel onto his hand, and as the cold wet fingers passed over his skin, Dean shuddered again, and then those hard insistent fingers were pressing into him again, twisting and stretching. Deep and uncomfortable and painful, arching away, he forgot to breathe, little stars bursting in his vision. “Breathe,” Louis said softly, “pass out and I have to start all over again.”

Initially the pain was brutal, his sphincter fighting uselessly to contract against the invading fingers. Then, Louis slipped his mouth down and Dean thrust forward into the warm recess with a scream as Louis pressed against his prostate. The thrill of it, flushing through him like a drug rush. His body responding automatically to the stimuli, with very little input from his mind. Seething, he tried to pull away only to feel the surge of pleasure as Louis, mouth and hands perfectly synchronised pushed the pain and pleasure button again and again.

Dean howled in despair at not only being raped, but that he couldn’t stop his body responding, and opening his eyes for the first time, stared straight into Sammy’s anguished eyes. He froze and the anger came again, giving him strength. The sight of Sam, Handel’s fingers twisted in his hair, face contorted by the pinch of a cruel hand, being forced to watch as Louis sucked him off, enraged him so utterly, that a sense of quiet, white hot rage cut through the drugs and the sensations.

Louis sensed the change in his body and pulled his mouth away, with a flourish of his tongue, flicking up and over the top as he did so. He raised his head and looked into his sultry hazel eyes, blazing in the glowering face. It wasn’t quite how Louis had imagined their eyes meeting at this point, but it was still entrancing. The handsome features twisted with rage and pain.

“When this is over,” Deans voice was barely a whisper, “I’m gonna kill you… slowly… in the most painful way I can think of, and just when you think you’ve taken enough, I’ll let you live just a little longer, you bastard. You hear me, I’m gonna kill you.”

Louis withdrew his fingers sharply and Dean did nothing more than grimace and turn his head to the side. Shaking off the shock of those few seconds, where Louis felt his destiny might just be to die in this boys’ hands, Louis chuckled and said, “You’re ready." Dean was sullen and silent as he was ordered to flip over, hands now released facing his brother.

“Look at the sweet little bitch boy,” Handel sneered at Sam. “On his hands and knees, just asking to be mounted.” Sam closed his eyes, but Handel squeezed so tight he almost dislocated his jaw. “You’re in this mess, cos you looked too much at what you shouldn’t have, Sammy boy, so now you keep ‘em open, and take it all in.”

Fear was forcing stomach acid into Dean’s mouth, causing his blood to run cold as if someone had injected him with anaesthetic. He had a feeling that before long he might wish they had. Louis busied himself smearing yet more cold lubricating gel between his cheeks, it was an unpleasant sensation. Dean clenched his hands into tight fists, pulling in the fabric of the eiderdown under his hands. He tensed as Louis touched his body, running moist fingers along his ribs, his spine and stroking his back. He felt the little man’s weight as he stretched over him, kissing his shoulder blades and whispering his name.

He winced and jerked away as Louis grabbed his arse. He closed his lips determined not to make any noise, but the pain as Louis pushed inside him was unbearable and he whimpered slightly. Louis mewed in satisfaction as Dean’s body spasmed around him gripping hard. “So tight,” he murmured with pleasure, “oh so tight.”

Sam watched in muted shock, as Louis’ skin came alive. His chest was a blur of soft blue green tones, as the daemon’s face formed across the taut flesh. Louis stretched his neck, gasping with pleasure, relinquishing control to the daemon, eyes like inky pools, lips darkening, double tipped tongue just visible.

“Your brother’s gonna be a tat,” Handel growled in Sam’s ear, “and then you’re gonna die.” Sam began struggling in earnest again, pushing against the floor with his feet, forcing the chair to rock backwards, but to no avail. Handle laughed again as Sam began cursing in Latin.

Dean collapsed forward, arms buckling under him, words and thoughts lost in a single scream of “No”. Iron like hands gripped his hips, hauling him back, each finger digging deeply into the flesh, bruising and tearing. Dean fought in panic, as Louis’ hand reached around him, grasping, stroking and pulling, forcing another pulse of near pleasure. “No. Please. No. Stop.” He was begging now, hating himself for the weakness in his voice, but desperate to stop the pressure and pleasure.

Louis moaned in ecstasy, pushing his mouth against Dean’s back, kissing and nipping his spine, tongue lapping gently at each tiny mark he made with his teeth. Dean cried again, eyes firmly shut, fighting the urge to struggle more, his skin prickly with a cold sweat, he bit his lip, eye lashes wet with tears.

Sam continued to stare in quiet horror. Handel sneered. “It will happen,” he said, almost to himself. “Louis is talented enough to get a reaction out of any man…” A little flash of inspiration flared and caught in Sam’s brain. Rapists and demons don’t seek to give pleasure, why would they care, so long as they got they what they wanted, which meant that they needed Dean to…

“Dean, don’t let him make you cum, it’s some form of incubus, it feeds on sexual energy. No orgasm, no feed. It can’t feed if…” Handel drew back his hand and the last thing Sam saw before the impact smashed him into dark oblivion was Dean’s agonised but comprehending face. The daemon inside Louis glared at Handel in fury, and Handel responded by throwing Sam to the floor. Louis became aware of the daemon receding, the link with the boy was gone, the daemon was hungry, it was angry, the tattoos which had shown many mouths calling in out at the point of orgasm pulled back into swirls and stilled, until all that was left was the intensity of it's rage.

Dean screamed in agony as Louis began to withdraw, despite the lubrication if felt as though someone had filled him with sandpaper. He screamed himself hoarse, all bravado forgotten as Louis slammed back into him, burning and ripping and blistering hot. Louis moulded himself over Dean’s back as he sank inside him to the hilt, biting down on his should. “I do recommend you relax, Dean. This will feel much better if you relax and stop fighting me.”

Dean nearly passed out as Louis rode him in earnest, one hand wrapped around his waist, effortlessly holding him in position, the other caressing Dean’s testes and milking him in time to his own strokes.

The pain was intense, but so was the pleasure as Louis changed the angle of his thrusts. Dean ground his teeth and focussed on Sam lying on the floor, arms twisted behind his back, face bloodied. Focussed on his anger, and the smell of his own sour body and the slap of skin on skin. “Agh, God. No.” He was desperate, crying now with pain and humiliation. They had made Sammy watch, they had made his little brother watch. 

After what seemed like an eternity to Dean, he heard Louis grunting behind him, pushing up hard and holding there as he let out a grunt of satisfaction that turned into a long drawn out sigh, like air escaping a vacuum. The warmth flooding through Dean as Louis lay across his back. They both fell sideways, Louis deflating rapidly and slipping out of him.

Louis crawled away, panting heavily and rolling on to his back. Without the daemon’s strength he was just a normal man. It would be back, but it too was weak from the exertion. Dean threw up as he felt the sticky warmth dribbling down his legs, he retched and retched unable to stop himself, shaking uncontrollably with shock, and pain.

Handel dragged him upright and Dean staggered, his legs weak. Handel slammed a fist into his gut, which combined with the retching seemed to wrench every muscle in his torso. Louis struggled on to his feet, and swaying slightly made his way to the chair, slumping into it.

Handel turned his attention back to Dean, chaining his arms to the columns again. He seized Dean’s jaw, much as he had Sam’s earlier, and looking directly into his face, gave a twisted smile. “Looks like you and me have a little more time to get acquainted, whilst Louis and your brother sleep it off. See you damn near broke my nose before, and I don’t think I’ve properly paid you back yet.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean lay on the floor, covered with a mixture of blood, faeces and worse. He curled into a ball. His bones ached and his gut was cramped and burning. Only now did he allow himself to cry. He knew he must be bleeding, but he couldn’t bring himself to check.

Handel had become bored with using his fists, and Louis had refused to let him use the knife or inflict any real damage, so Handel had used his belt and his key chain as make shift paddle and whip. Alternating between the two. Dean had screamed as the tiny links cut into his back, bruising and burning like a thousand nettle stings.

Sam was gone, dragged from the room, barely conscious, and when he had repeatedly asked and goaded in an effort to find out where his brother was, a makeshift gag using the remnants of his T-shirt had been forced into his mouth and tied so tight it had split his already blooded lip.

Now he lay surrounded by filth, barely able to move knowing that Louis would be back and understanding now exactly what they intended to do with him, and pretty certain that if he didn’t comply they might just kill him and move on to Sam.

Gradually the internal pains began to subside, he crawled to the cleanest spot he could find and sat down, arms clenched about his knees, more squatting than sitting, he shivered. The leather cuffs were no longer attached to chains, but he started to pull at them with his fingers, feeling trapped by them, as a symbol of imprisonment and servitude. He tore at them with his teeth, tasting the salt of his own sweat in the leather, but they were new and firmly fastened. He yelled, enraged, his voice echoing back to him from the walls, stood slowly and paced, before settling back against the wall. He was cold. He was hungry. He did not remember ever feeling so nauseous his entire life. He swallowed uncomfortably, knowing there was nothing left but bile. He closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to flow once more. He felt too weary to fight anymore. He knelt forward, forehead against the wall. The cool bricks soothing his throbbing cheek. Finally from sheer exhaustion he slept. Drifting in and out of dreams, all painful and nightmarish to varying degrees.


	6. The Reawakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue, and angst, and the Winchester boys together again... awwww.

Vicky ran frantically through the brush towards the warehouse, soft blond hair flying behind her. Handel had locked her in the office, but she had undone the screws on the door hinges with the letter opener she found in a drawer and now she had to go back to find Ben. The pain in her heart had nothing to with the exertion of running. She reached the doorway to the warehouse and ran through it, staring at the wet patch on the empty floor.

She turned around, the black car was still there and she realised it wasn’t empty. Heart pounding, she yanked open the door. Ben looked up, grinning his goofy lopsided grin. His arm was partly bandaged. “Care to help me, Vic, can’t seem to tie this off on my own.” Laughing and crying she dropped against him, covering him with kisses. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“On your feet, pretty boy.” Handel stood in the room, gun and baton at the ready. Dean struggled up, legs weak and unco-operative. He flinched automatically as Handel pulled lengths of thin chain from a duffle, and Handel laughed.

“Where’s my brother?” Dean asked, not expecting an answer.

“Oh, he’s safe, Dean. For now. Arms in front of you, nice and calm, one at a time.” The sheriff was still wary, even though Dean could barely stand.

He clipped the chains to the walls once more, stringing Dean between them, with just enough slack to let him kneel. Handel refastened the gag, he was bored of hearing the boy talk and goad. He left the room and returned with a bucket and sponge, and none to gently began to clear off the detritus of the earlier session. Dean fought for breath against the heavy sharp smell of the disinfectant and the burning pain as the sponge passed over his back.

“Can’t risk infection, apparently. Louis has plans for you Sweetie. Time to take your meds.” The hypodermic slammed into his thigh, but Dean barely noticed amongst all the other pain messages pulsing through his body. “This stuff would even make me responsive.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door opened and Dean raised his head, expecting to see that Louis had returned. His gut clenched and he retched and panted behind the gag, fearful he would choke. He was drenched in sweat, as he hung limply from the chains holding his arms outstretched. His lips were swollen and blood red, around the dirty cloth that was tied around his head. The bruise above his eye had drained into the socket, shading it blue and purple. The cut on his forehead was still crusted with dirt, where Handel had slammed it into the floor earlier.

Sam ran forward, crying slightly with a mixture of relief and anguish. He angrily wiped the tears on the shoulder of his shirt, as he took the weight of Dean’s body. Green eyes focussed on his face in disbelief. Sam loosened the rag with one hand and Dean spat the dirty material out of his mouth. “Sammy,” he murmured, like a prayer had been answered. “Are they…”

“Shhh, I have to get us out of here, we don’t have long. Can you stand?” Dean nodded weakly and dragged his feet under his body. Sam threw the chains away, as Dean fell forward against him. He wrapped his big brother in a blanket, watching with concern as he flinched as it touched the welts on his back. “Dean, we have to move. Willis is going after Handel, but Louis is still out there somewhere. We need to put some mileage between us and them, maybe get you to a hospital?” he asked hopefully.

“No hospital, Sam,” The last thing Dean Winchester wanted anywhere near his abused body was a doctor with good intentions and a sexual assault kit.

“OK, no hospital, but we gotta go.” Dean sniffed hard and seemed to pull himself up, wiping his face on the blanket draped over his shoulders. After staggering like a couple of drunks to the door, Sam hoisted Dean onto his shoulder. It wasn’t very dignified, and Dean groaned in pain, but didn’t protest, which worried Sam more than he wanted to think about.

By the time they reached baby, Dean was barely conscious. Sam wrapped the blanked around him further, jumped behind the wheel and drove. Vicky was collecting their stuff from the motel and clearing the room, leaving no trace that the brothers had ever been there. When the coast was clear they would come back for it.

They moved every few days, physically Dean healed, only the welts on his back and the heaviest of the bruises remained. His nights however were filled with nightmares and cold sweats. Regularly he woke screaming, refusing Sam’s offers of comfort and suggestions. Throwing the pills he was offered by a patient Sam so hard that the container shattered against the wall.

Late one Friday night, they pulled into yet another roadside motel. The new room was cleaner and nicer than normal. The old couple at the reception had seemed genuine, which caused Sam a minor pang of guilt as he dropped a bundle of bloodstained sheets from Dean’s bed into the trash, the following morning.

Dean stood in the shower, shivering despite the heat of the water running over his body. He leant his forehead against the cool tile wall and let the water course down his back. Eyes closed, forcing the tears back behind his eyelids. Last night, he had finally accepted the pills that Sam offered after he had redressed the wounds on his back. Falling onto the bed, glad to sink into oblivion, where the nightmares couldn’t touch him. He hated the role reversal, hated relying on Sam, hated Sam for being there to see it all, hated the look in Sam’s eyes when he thought he wasn’t looking. Hated himself most of all. He banged his head into the wall, as Sam wandered into the bathroom. “Sam get the fuck out.”

But Sam wasn’t listening. He reached forward with a towel. “The old couple on the desk, said the hot water goes off at 9.30.”

“Would you stop looking at me like that… Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Can’t do that, you need to talk about this. And even if you don’t wanna talk, you need someone to deal with…” Sam’s voice petered out and he cleared his throat awkwardly. Jesus, they had both been beaten to a pulp more than once, but somehow even the faint remains of bruises on his brothers skin made him want to cry.

“What I need is for you to stop looking at me like some soppy teenage girl.” Dean shouted. Jumping back as the water ran cold. The fact that Sam was right about this too, just snapped something inside him and he flew at Sam, fist connecting with his jaw, knocking him back against the wall. Sam raised his hands to protect himself against the onslaught. “Dean, stop, Dean, please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

They wrestled on the linoleum floor, until finally they lay there, Sam hugging Dean tightly against him, the water soaking his clothes, refusing to hit back, refusing to hurt his brother anymore than he had to, to make him stop. Finally exhausted and wretched Dean lay limply on the floor, and began to sob. Sam struggled, but lifted him up. Growling with frustration as Dean batted away his hands. “Do you think this was easy for me?” he said, voice cracking, “watching what that sick freak did to you and powerless to do anything about it, thinking any minute you might disappear into skin and ink. Dean, I…” Sam finally cracked and the tears flowed too easily.

Dean flopped his arm onto Sam’s shoulder and they leant there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily, neither want to make the next move or break the connection. Slowly without conscious decision they made it to the bed and lay quiet in one another’s arms, each feeling they were comforting the other, without really admitting the reality of their own need.

Sam woke first, his right arm numb, under the dead weight of Dean’s body. His brother shifted in his sleep, finally looking peaceful and calm. Carefully Sam pulled his arm free and moved back to the other bed settling quietly to watch his brother’s face for a while, before, satisfied that he was out, he grabbed his laptop and occupied himself until the sunlight outside faded into night and it was time to sleep again. 

Sam woke with a start, hearing a car engine, but it was only another guest making an early start. Dean had twisted onto his face and the pillow was half off the bed. Sam reached down to move it and the bed creaked under him and he caught the night stand with his arm, knocking the pill bottle to the floor. “Sammy, you are a noisy fucker ,” Dean said, eyelids flicking open, grinning for the first time in over two months.

The smile which grew on Sam’s face, teeth shining like a lighthouse beacon in the early morning light, reflected the singing of his heart. Dean lifted himself onto his elbows. “I’m hungry, let’s go eat pie.”

“Dude, pie? For breakfast?”

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Gradually over the next few weeks, the old Dean resurfaced. They had a brush with a poltergeist, took on a couple of middle level demons and life returned to near normality.

One morning as he stood shaking and folding the clothes he had just brought back form the laundrette, with the military precision with which he instinctively did everything, Dean said casually, “We need to kill him.”

“Huh?” Sam stuck his head round the door of the bathroom, razor in hand, face partly covered in shave foam. “Kill who?”

“Louis, you asshole. We need to find him and kill him.”

Sam pulled a towel from the bathroom, wiping the remainder of the foam from his face, not sure what to say next. The determinedly casual look on Dean’s face wasn’t convincing him at all.

He opened his mouth to speak and then thinking better of it, he closed it again. “Ok, Sammy, enough of the goldfish impression, spit it out.”

“Don’t call me Sammy,” he said, throwing the towel at Dean. “I’ll call Vicky, if you’re sure you’re ready… Jesus Dean, it’s only been six months.”

“And who knows what damage that fucker has done in that time. We need to track him down and kill him.” He carried on folding, nonchalantly. “And no Bobby!” It was an old argument now, but Dean remained insistent. “This stays between us.”

Sighing, Sam said resignedly, “I’ll pull up my research on how to kill the daemon.”

Dean continued to fold his clothes.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't mess with the Winchesters.

The sun beats through the roof of the shopping mall. Louis stands blinking in the light, scoping the young man he has been following for a week now. Learning his habits, seeking his opportunity to lead him away from his family and friends. 

He had befriended him in a bar a few weeks previously. He finds this part so tiring. He misses Handel, it had been so much easier to pay someone else to acquire his food. But that door is now closed forever. He thinks momentarily of Dean Winchester and he feels the daemon stir. It is weak. One feed in 8 months, some drug addicted boy prostitute, a feeble meal, compared with the strength and vitality of Dean. It needs more.

Louis makes his way to the bathroom. He pushes open the door and heads round the corner to the stalls. Someone stands at the urinal, peeing, Louis’ eyes linger briefly on his arse, until the man turns, and he looks straight up into the eyes of Sam Winchester.

Louie realises he is going to die. It is almost a relief, no more looking over his shoulder. At least he will die quickly, this place is too public for any slow vengeance. Sam can see the mixture of fear and acceptance on Louis’ face. Poor bastard doesn’t quite realise what is happening here. 

Dean appears out of the dark stall behind Louis’ left shoulder. “Should have carried on looking,” Dean observes drily, as if he has read Louis’ mind. 

The pointed little face contorts with agony, as Dean stabs him with the syringe, leaving it stuck empty between his legs. How wrong could he have been? His mouth opens in an unsounding scream, a mockery of the faces in his tattoos. His heart begins to pump frantically, the blood is seeping into the fabric of his cream linen trousers, spreading like red wine spilt across a table cloth. The daemon is writhing and tearing at him from the inside as it dies.

Dean blinks slowly, stepping forward from the shadows into the sunlight. Louis stares fascinated as the pupils shrink to pinpoints in the deep crystalline irises, the eyes are the bright green jewels of Louis' dreams. He falls forward onto his knees, as his body shuts down systematically. His heart is still beating furiously, spreading the poison around his body and he writhes like a rat, kicking out it’s last, falling to the floor.

Dean spits on the marble tiles in front of Louis’ face, walking away with Sam, leaving the twitching wreck to fade out, unable to scream for help and unsaveable if by chance it comes.


End file.
